Word  Pictures 
in  Rhyme 


p 

53521 

I5873 

W7 

1919 

MAIN 


UC-NRLF 


273    173 


O.  W.  KINSMAN 
Pasadena,  Calif. 


C\J 


GIFT  OF 


Word  Pictures  in  Rhyme 


BY 

O.    W.     KINSMAN 


Copyrighted,  1919 


I 

W7 

CONTENTS 


Accepting  the  Flag  ----------  ----------------------  15 

After  the  Rain  _  _____  ------------------------------  61 

Autumn  in  Iowa  -------  :  ------------  20 

Autumn  Reveries  ------------------------ 

Baby's  First  Tooth,  The  __________________________  55 

Bathing  Suits,  The  ______________________________  52 

Best  Kind  of  a  Man,  The—.  69 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The  __________________________  32 

Christmas  Gift,  The  _____________________________  38 

Dead  Mocking  Bird,  The  _  42 

Did  Lincoln  Know?   ------------------------------  34 

Evening  _____________________________________        ----  50 

Fife  Major,  The  _______________________________  -----  31 

Fish  Story  ___________________________________  27 

Flowers  of  Memory,  The  _________________________  16 

Grandmother's  Hope  ------------------------  ----  23 

Grandpap  and  the  Baby  __________________________  57 

Greeting    _______________________________________  43 

Honor  the  Flag  _________________________________  8 

Illustrations  __________________________  10,  12,  54,  60,  64 

In  Memory  ____________________________________  29 

In  Memory  of  the  Old  Farm  of  Elijah  Canfield  ______  67 

June  ______________________________________________  39 

June  Bride,  The  ____________________________________  40 

Knocker,  The  ______________________________________  51 

Letter  to  Edith  ____________________________________  59 

Looking  Forward  _________________________________  25 

Loom  of  Life,  The  _________________  _  _____________  53 

Memorial  Address  _______________________________  46 

Mission  Bells  ______________________________________  44 

Miss-Named  Mocking  Bird,  The  _____________________  40 


My  California 19 

My  Iowa 17 

October  in  Iowa 35 

Old  Songs 28 

On  the  Farm  at  Alpaugh 65 

On  the  Farm  at  Alpaugh 70 

Our    Chaplain    34 

Our  Poet 22 

Our  Winter  Rose 41 

Passing  Hero,  The 13 

Preface    5 

Robert  E.  Lee 35 

Roses  That  Speak  to  Me,  The 45 

Since  Mother  Went  Away 56 

Springtime  in  California 21 

Summer  Trip— 1918,  A 30 

Sweet  Alice 48 

To  Dorothy 61 

To  Edith  When  a  Child 68 

To  James  Whitcomb  Riley 36 

To  Stella 63 

To  the  Old  Flags  at  the  Capitol  in  Iowa 9 

Tribute  of  Flowers,  A 71 

Tribute  to  S.  R.  Reeves,  A 66 

Two  Loves 17 

Vacation,  The 24 

View  From  the  Mountains,  A 49 

Water  Song,  The 37 

When  Death  Shall  Call 72 

When  Dorthy  Got  the  Glasses 62 

When  Peace  May  Come 

When  They  Took  Baby  Marian  Camping 58 


PREFACE;,  !     . 


In  writing  this  little  sketch  of  my  life  and  having  the 
stories  in  rhyme  which  we  call  poems,  printed  in  book 
form,  I  have  no  excuse  to  offer  only  that  some  of  my 
friends  may  find  pleasure  in  reading  them  in  their  leisure 
moments.  I  have  spent  many  pleasant  and  happy  hours  in 
writing  these  views  that  have  come  to  my  mind  and  if  I  have 
succeeded  in  making  my  points  clear  so  that  the  reader  can 
go  with  me  in  memory  and  follow  my  flights  of  fancy  and 
imagination;  if  he  is  a  lover  of  the  beauties  of  nature, 
he  will  look  above  and  beyond  my  weak  effort  and  perhaps 
see  far  more  than  I  have  been  able  to  feel  or  describe. 

I  have  tried  to  describe  my  own  emotions  and  im 
pulses  in  my  own  simple  way.  There  is  no  claim  made  that 
this  work  is  of  any  literary  value.  It  is  like  the  work  of  a 
country  blacksmith,  just  hammered  out  without  mould  or 
form.  Though  the  material  may  be  good,  it  is  not  polished. 

I  was  born  in  Oskaloosa,  Iowa,  October  6th,  1846.  My 
father  was  Orson  0.  Kinsman,  who  died  when  I  was  three 
years  of  age.  He  left  a  wife  and  five  children  of  which 
I  was  next  to  the  youngest,  four  boys  and  one  girl.  He 
left  no  property  except  a  small  house  and  lot,  so  my  mother 
had  to  work  to  make  a  living  for  the  family.  The  two 
oldest  boys  soon  found  places  away  from  home  to  work, 
while  I  was  turned  loose  to  almost  shift  for  myself,  as  my 
mother  did  not  have  time  to  keep  track  of  a  wild,  reckless 
boy  such  as  I  was.  We  drifted  along  until  I  was  seven 
years  old  and  then  my  grandmother  found  a  place  for  me 
with  a  kind  uncle,  Elijah  Canfield,  who  lived  near  Des 
Moines,  fifty  miles  away.  Events  up  to  that  time  are  very 
dim  in  my  memory.  I  remember  that  I  had  attended  school 
and  could  read  and  spell  a  little. 


1  tvijl  neve/  forget  my  feelings  when  I  arrived  at  my 
uncle's  farm  away  out  on  the  great  prairie.  If  you  were 
prey  JiGipesick  when  a  child,  you  will  know  how  I  felt,  but 
my  homesickness  was  of  short  duration,  for  I  was  soon  put 
to  work  doing  chores  and  running  errands  so  that  I  had  no 
time  to  be  homesick  except  on  Sundays.  Then  I  would  go 
out  across  the  fields  where  stood  two  old  lone  trees  and 
there  beneath  their  spreading  shade  I  would  lie  down  on  the 
grass  and  in  my  loneliness  resort  to  tears.  Young  hearts 
are  soon  healed  and  I  soon  learned  to  love  the  fields,  the 
birds  and  brooks  and  all  the  wild  life,  and  many  happy 
days  I  spent  roaming  through  the  hazel  brush  around  the 
old  lone  trees.  My  uncle's  folks  were  very  kind  to  me,  yet 
I  was  not  one  of  the  family  and  could  never  feel  that  I  had 
an  equal  right  with  their  children. 

So  the  years  passed  with  varied  events,  I  will  not  take 
time  to  record  here.  Through  the  early  years  of  my  life  my 
grandmother  watched  over  me  like  a  mother.  She  was  a 
devout  Christian  and  a  remarkable  woman  and  her  wise 
counsel  and  beautiful  life  have  been  a  great  inspiration  to 
me.  Though  I  did  not  live  up  to  her  standard  of  life,  I  am 
sure  that  I  have  been  made  better  by  her  gentle  spirit  than 
I  would  have  been  otherwise. 

When  the  war  broke  out  in  1861  I  was  fourteen  years  of 
age  and  like  the  men  and  boys  of  that  exciting  time  I  was 
bound  to  go.  I  tried  to  go  with  several  different  companies 
but  was  turned  down  on  account  of  my  age  during  the  first 
year  of  the  war,  but  in  July,  1862,  I  went  in  the  18th  Iowa 
Infantry,  Company  G.  I  did  not  know  a  single  man  in  the 
company  with  which  I  went.  There  were  three  boys  went 
from  our  neighborhood,  Jason  Ellis,  J.  C.  Garrett  and  my 
self.  I  could  not  get  into  the  same  company  as  the  others 
and  I  went  as  a  drummer  boy  in  another  company.  I  was 
the  youngest  in  the  regiment  when  it  went  into  the  service. 
1  served  full  three  years  without  furlough.  I  did  not  know 


how  to  drum.  But  I  wanted  to  learn  and  the  Drum  Major 
took  a  great  interest  in  me  and  he  was  a  fine  drummer,  so 
that  I  learned  very  rapidly  and  always  held  my  place  next 
to  him.  At  the  close  of  my  enlistment  I  was  rated  the  best 
drummer  in  our  regiment,  and  now  after  fifty  years  of  hard 
labor  I  can  remember  and  execute  the  most  difficult  lessons 
which  I  learned  at  that  time.  It  would  make  this  narrative 
too  long  for  me  to  attempt  to  give  a  history  of  my  experi 
ence  in  the  army,  but  the  events  of  that  three  years'  time  is 
more  vividly  impressed  in  my  memory  than  any  other  part 
of  my  life. 

After  coming  out  of  the  service  I  worked  for  two  or  three 
years  at  railroad  work,  grading  and  team  work.  In  No 
vember,  1867,  I  married  Eliza  Jane  Barnes  of  Pork  County, 
Iowa.  We  soon  after  moved  to  Cass  County,  Iowa,  and 
there  improved  a  farm  on  which  we  lived  for  twenty-four 
years.  We  then  moved  to  California  on  account  of  Mrs. 
Kinsman's  health.  W'e  have  raised  four  children,  three  boys 
and  one  girl,  and  now  that  I  am  about  old  enough  to  quit 
work  and  my  wife  has  passed  on  over  the  divide,  I  put  in 
my  leisure  time  living  over  my  past  life  in  memory  and 
dreams,  and  playing  with  the  grandchildren.  I  have  always 
tried  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  life  and  now  in  my  de 
clining  years  I  get  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  by  constructing 
little  stories  in  rhyme. 

We  have  lived  in  California  for  28  years  and  most  of 
that  time  I  have  worked  at  mason  work  and  street  grading, 
so  most  of  my  poems  are  descriptive  of  both  California  and 
Iowa. 

I  now  dedicate  this  work  to  those  of  my  friends  who  may 
care  to  read  these  poems. 

OWEN   W.   KINSMAN. 


HONOR   THE   FLAG 

Honor  the  flag  as  it  waves  overhead, 
Love  its  bright  colors,  but  flaunt  not  the  red; 
Stand  by  the  flag, — it's  more  precious  than  gold, 
Liberty  gleams  from  its  every  bright  fold. 

Stand  by  the  flag,  boys,  be  ready  to  fight; 
Keep  its  folds  clean  and  pure  as  the  white; 
Flag  of  the  patient,  the  brave  and  the  true, — 
All  honor  to  thee,  our  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

June,  1917. 


HONOR   THE   FLAG 

All  hail,  proud  Flag  of  Liberty, 

Flag  without  a  single  stain, 
Lead  on  the  host  of  charity 

Across  the  raging  main, 

Until  all  people  of  the  earth 
May  sing  sweet  freedom's  song; 

And  as  each  nation  finds  new  birth 
The  echoes  will  prolong. 

Who  can  look  upon  that  Flag  without  pride  of  country? 
To  our  men  in  foreign  lands,  it  is  home  and  country  itself. 
Every  part  has  a  language  which  was  officially  recognized 
by  our  fathers:  Blue  is  for  justice,  white  is  for  purity, 
and  red  is  for  valor, — making  the  most  beautiful  banner 
ever  unfurled  to  the  breeze  to  be  loved  and  cherished  by 
all  our  hearts  and  upheld  by  all  our  hands. 

8 


TO   THE   OLD   FLAGS  AT  THE   CAPITOL   IN   IOWA 

Old  flags,  we  bow  in  reverence  to  you, 

Within  that  case  you're  eloquent  though  mute; 

You  speak  to  us  of  sixty-one  and  two, 
As  we  pass  by  and  give  you  our  salute. 

You  speak  of  justice  on  that  field  of  blue, 
Of  purity  with  stars  and  stripes  of  white, 

With  red  for  valor  and  of  brave  men  true, 
That:  saved  a  Nation  battling  for  the  right. 

You  speak  of  brave  men  living  now  and  dead, 

Immortal  spirits  of  the  glorious  past, 
And  those  who  pass  you  by  with  faltering  tread, 

Whose  ranks  as  years  go  by  are  thinning  fast. 

When  all  the  brave  and  gallant  men  you  led 
Have  passed  beyond  and  are  no  more  of  earth, 

You  still  will  lead  their  cause  though  they  are  dead 
You  represent  a  Nation's  second  birth. 

Here  'neath  this  marble  dome  encased  in  glass 
You  speak  more  eloquent  than  words  though  mute— 

And  cause  the  great  and  mighty  throng  that  pass 
To  bow  in  reverence  as  they  salute. 


10 


AUTUMN    REVERIES 

I  watch  the  autumn  sunset  gold, 
And  dream  of  youth  as  I  grow  old, 
Of  home,  of  friends  and  native  climes, 
Of  summer's  bloom,  of  winter's  chimes. 

Of  boyhood  days,  of  love's  young  dreams, 
Of  fields,  of  woods  and  winding  streams, 
Of  one  who  wanders  with  me  there 
With  wild  rose  blossoms  in  her  hair. 

Of  happy  days  when  children  came 
To  bless  our  home  and  bear  our  name. 
And   in  my  dreams  the  vanished  years, 
Are  mem'ries  of  past  hopes  and  fears. 

And  now  as  I  am  growing  old, 
Grandchildren  on  my  knees  I  hold. 
I  rock  with  them  'neath  flowering  vines, 
And  their  young  love  my  heart  entwines. 

I  wonder  if  when  I  am  dead, 

And  sod  grows  o'er  my  narrow  bed, 

I  wonder  then,  will  I  have  dreams 

Of  fields,  of  woods  and  winding  streams. 

And  will  my  spirit  see  and  hear 
The  friends  I  loved  in  life  most  dear, 
And  will  I  see  the  flowers  bloom 
In  clusters  round  my  silent  tomb? 

Will  all  mistakes  that  I  have  made, 
Together  in  my  grave  be  laid; 
Will  any  good  I've  done  or  said, 
Be  soon  forgot  when  I  am  dead. 

11 


12 


THE   PASSING   HERO 

I  was  but  a  drummer  boy,  yet  I  was  a  witness  to  what 
the  men  did  in  that  great  conflict,  and  now  as  I  look  back 
through  the  years — 

I  see  the  boys  of  sixty-one  again,  as  through  a  dream, 
And  'midst  the  smoke  of  battle  see  their  flashing  sabers 

gleam. 

I  hear  the  guns  of  Sumter,  as  they  echo  'round  the  world, 
And  I  hear  the  statesmen  pleading,  and  see  the  flag  un 
furled. 

I  see  grave  men  assemble  in  small  groups  upon  the  street, 
And  see  pale  women  tremble  as  they  watch  their  husbands 

meet. 

I  can  see  the  companies  drilling,  out  on  the  public  green — 
The  young,  the  old,  the  long,  the  short,  the  fat  men,  and  the 

lean. 

1  see  these  men  assembling  from  factories,  stores,  and  farms ; 

All  these  brave  men  were  willing  then  to  bear  their  coun 
try's  arms. 

I  see  men  by  the  cradles  kissing  babes  that  are  asleep, 

Bidding  wives  be  brave  and  patient — brave  men,  too  sad  to 
weep. 

With  fife  and  drum  and  flags  unfurled,  I  see  them  march 

away. 

It  all  comes  back  so  plain  to  me,  it  seems  but  yesterday. 
I  see  them  on  the  weary  march,  in  mud,  through  rain  and 

snow. 
And  in  their  silent  camps  at  night,  where  shadows  come 

and  go, 

13 


I  see  them  in  the  raging  storm,  out  on  the  picket  lines, 
And  on  the  lonely  outer  posts,  among  the  moaning  pines. 
I  see  them  in  the  battle  line,  where  brave  men's  nerves  are 

tried, 
And  in  the  wild  charge,  like  demons,  where  many  heroes 

died. 

And  over  the  field  of  battle,  after  the  day's  hard  fight, 
I  see  the  dead  and  the  dying,  under  the  stars  at  night. 
I  see  them  carrying  wounded  men,  with  slow  and  steady 

tread, 
And  I  see  the  long,  wide  trenches  where  sleep  the  hero  dead. 

1  see  the  sick  and  wounded  men  along  the  great  highway, 
When,  like  a  mighty  avalanche,  our  lines  fell  back  that  day. 
I  see  and  feel  that  pall  of  gloom  that  overspread  our  land, 
Until  our  scattered  forces  formed  and  made  that  gallant 

stand. 
And  step  by  step  for  four  long  years  forced  treason  to  its 

fall,' 

Until  our  starry  banner,  saved  once  more,  waved  over  all; 
And  when  the  foes  to  equal  rights  returned  within  the  fold, 
A  mightier  Nation  then  arose,  and  new-born  hope  unrolled. 

I  see  the  men  who  wore  the  gray  return  to  ruined  homes — 
No  wreck  was  ever  more  complete  since  that  of  ancient 

Rome's. 
In  giving  praise  to  these  brave  men,  these  men  who  wore 

the  blue, 
Let's  not  forget  the  men  in  gray — for  they  were  heroes,  too ! 

I  see  these  heroes.  North  and  South,  move  forward  hand  in 
hand, 

And  make  the  wheel  of  progress  turn,  through  all  this  glori 
ous  land.  •> 

Our  hero  now  is  getting  old,  his  sight  is  growing  dim; 

Full  soon  the  muffled  drum  will  beat  the  last  long  roll  for 

him. 

14 


ACCEPTING   THE    FLAG 

Long  may  they  live  the  women  who  give, 

This  beautiful  flag  to  our  band. 
May  life  be  a  song  as  they  journey  along, 

May  their  works  as  a  monument  stand. 

As  just  and  as  true  as  our  flag's  field  of  blue, 

And  as  pure  as  its  color  of  white, 
May  a  radiance  be  shed  as  bright  as  its  red, 

As  they  always  dare  to  do  right. 

From  the  women  who  gave  the  men  who  helped  save 

This  flag  of  the  just  and  the  free, 
We  accept  with  delight  this  banner  so  bright, 

An  emblem  of  peace  it  shall  be. 

It  will  brighten  our  way  and  will  help  us  to  play, 
It  will  bring  the  old  tunes  to  our  mind; 

As  we  march  along  we  can  play  that  old  song, 
Of  the  girls  that  the  boys  left  behind. 

And  when  we  are  laid  in  the  pepper  tree  shade, 

Under  our  flag  and  the  dew, 
We  hope  that  the  boys  who  now  play  with  toys, 

Will  honor  this  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

And  as  it  unfurls  they  will  play  for  the  girls, 
The  old  tunes  we  now  play  for  you; 

And  may  this  flag  wave,  in  peace  o'er  the  grave, 
Of  the  boys  who  once  wore  the  blue. 


This  flag  was  presented  to  the  Drum  Corps  by  the  W.  R.  C. 

15 


THE   FLOWERS    OF   MEMORY 

The  woods  and  the  prairies  where  the  flowers  grew  wild 

Around  the  log  cabin  when  I  was  a  child, 

Still  bloom  on  in  memory  wherever  I  roam, 

And  in  fancy  I  see  the  dear  faces  at  home. 

Flowers  and  faces  that  have  faded  away, 

In  memory  still  bloom  as  they  used  to  in  May. 

The  flowers  of  memory  bloom  on  through  the  years, 
When  fond  recollections  bedew  them  with  tears; 
The  grave  of  our  friends,  like  the  leaves  of  the  trees, 
Are  scattered  around  by  adversity's  breeze. 
Yet  memory  goes  back  with  its  flowers  to  lay, 
A  wreath  for  each  grave  on  Memorial  Day. 

We  visit  the  grave  where  our  grandmother  sleeps, 
Where  whip-poor-wills  sing  and  the  willow  tree  weeps; 
In  the  old  graveyard  on  the  hill's  gentle  slope, 
They  laid  her  away  with  her  bright  star  of  hope; 
And  her  gentle  sweet  life  has  brightened  life's  sway, 
And  her  memory  is  fresh  as  the  flowers  of  May. 

The  flowers  of  memory  still  bloom  o'er  the  grave 
Of  a  brother  who  sleeps  where  palmettos  wave; 
War's  messenger  carried  away  his  young  life 
While  following  the  flag  in  the  great  civil  strife. 
And,  Oh,  how  the  thoughts  of  that  brother  still  bring 
Back  to  our  memory  the  wild  flowers  of  spring. 


16 


TWO     LOVES 

O,  I  love  you,  California,  and  I  love  you,  Iowa, 

I  saw  October  dressing  you  with  gold,  with  green  and  gray. 

California  with  her  flowers  has  almost  won  my  heart, 

But  from  Iowa's  corn  and  clover  it  was  hard  for  me  to  part. 

I  don't  think  one  should  have  to  lie  or  break  his  heart  in  two 
For  surely  no.  one  is  to  blame  for  loving  both  of  you. 
California   has  sunshine,  has  her   mountains   capped  with 

snow, 
For  storing  up  the  winter  rains  to  make  her  lemons  grow. 

Iowa  has  springtime,  must  have  spring  and  summer  rains, 
And  she  has  her  grand  October  for  ripening  up  the  grains. 
California,  0,  I  love  you,  but  Iowa  has  my  heart, 
But  you  surely  won't  get  jealous  for  you  are  so  far  apart. 

I  have  been  away  most  of  the  time  for  30  years,  but  I 
still  love 


MY    IOWA 

0,  Iowa,  my  Iowa, 

I  love  thy  fields  of  clover  hay, 

The  bright  green  leaves,  the  purple  bloom, 

The  new  mown  hay  with  sweet  perfume. 

I  love  thy  hills,  and  rolling  plains, 

Thy  fields  of  corn  and  golden  grains. 

I  love  to  roam  in  the  early  morn, 

Through  the  stubble  fields  and  tasseled  corn. 

Through  woodland  groves,  where  Nature  charms 
Where  shady  lanes  divide  the  farms, 
Past  the  village  church  with  steepled  domes, 
The  country  schools  and  farmer's  homes. 

17 


I  love  the  music  of  the  farm, 
No  silver  band  has  greater  charm, 
The  lowing  herd,  the  neighing  steed 
The  pigs  all  squealing  for  their  feed. 

The  cackling  hens,  the  rooster  crows, 
The  squawking  ducks  and  geese  in  rows, 
The  children  shout,  the  barking  dogs, 
The  farmer's  voice  is  calling  hogs. 

0,  Iowa,  my  Iowa, 
I  am  lonesome  now  when  far  away, 
And  now  if  I  were  young  again, 
I  think  I'd  never  cross  the  plain, 

But  stay  back  there  in  Iowa 
And  raise  fine  cattle,  corn  and  hay; 
Where  boys  all  grow  to  man's  estate 
With  equal  chance  of  growing  great. 

And  where  they  raise  such  handsome  girls, 
They  need  no  paint,  no  primps  or  curls, 
Now  while  we  live  where  skies  are  blue, 
For  all  these  things  we  envy  you. 

But  blood  gets  thin  as  we  grow  old, 
When  winter  comes  our  feet  get  cold, 
So  we  spend  our  days  where  lemons  grow, 
Where  mountain  tops  contain  the  snow. 

Where  fragrance  of  the  orange  bloom 
Drives  away  the  winter's  gloom. 
We  sit  there  in  the  palm  trees'  shade 
And  tell  of  the  snows  we  used  to  wade, 

And  think  of  all  the  other  joys, 

That  winter  brought  when  we  were  boys. 

0,  Iowa,  my  Iowa, 

In  memory  may  these  visions  stay. 

18 


MY   CALIFORNIA 
(Tune— My  Maryland) 

0  California!   happy  land, 

With  silver  waves  on  ocean  strand, 
With  gentle  breezes  from  the  sea, 
My  California,  I  love  thee. 

1  love  thy  mountains  capped  with  snow; 
Thy  fields  where  golden  poppies  grow, 

With  song  of  birds  and  hum  of  bees, 
Where  nature  sings  among  the  trees. 

Land  of  the  orange,  land  of  the  bloom, 
Thy  sunshine  helps  to  banish  gloom; 

Where  water  from  the  mountain  springs 
Glad  tidings  to  the  valley  brings. 

0  California!  happy  land, 

With  silver  waves  on  ocean  strand, 

With  gentle  breezes  from  the  sea, 
My  California,  I  love  thee. 

0  land  of  plenty!   land  of  wealth, 

I  prize  thee  most  as  land  of  health; 

1  love  this  land  from  shore  to  shore, 
But  love  my  California  more. 

0  California!  happy  land, 

With  silver  waves  on  ocean  strand, 
With  gentle  breezes  from  the  sea, 

My  California,  I  love  thee. 

Pasadena,  California,  September,  1913. 

19 


AUTUMN  IN  IOWA 

The  Autumn  leaves  are  falling, 

There's  sadness  in  the  air, 
The  katydids  are  calling, 

There  are  echoes  everywhere. 

The  willow  trees  are  weeping 
For  the  withered  leaves  that  fall; 

There's  somber  stillness  creeping 
Through  the  attic  and  the  hall. 

The  elm  trees  are  slipping 

Their  yellow  leaves  around; 
To  keep  Jack  Frost  from  nipping 

All  the  green  grass  on  the  ground. 

The  walnut  trees  are  dropping 
Their  nuts  among  the  leaves, 

And  the  hickory  nuts  are  popping 
As  they  rattle  from  the  eaves. 

The  ears  of  corn  are  drooping 

For  the  leaves  are  turning  brown; 

And  the  stalks  of  corn  are  stooping 
'Cause  the  ears  are  pulling  down. 

The  bumblebee  is  drooning 
For  the  clover's  turning  gray; 

The  Autumn  winds  are  moaning 
'Cause  the  clouds  don't  move  away. 

This  morn  the  clouds  were  weeping, 

And  everything  seemed  sad; 
But  at  eve  the  sun  was  peeping 

Through  the  clouds,  and  all  are  glad. 

20 


SPRINGTIME    IN    CALIFORNIA 

When  the  snow  is  on  the  mountains  and  the  poppies  are  in 

bloom 

And  the  balmy  air  is  scented  with  the  orange  grove  perfume, 
When  you  go  out  in  your  auto  where  the  roads  are  smooth 

and  hard 
And  you  glide  through  blooming  orchards  on  the  foothill 

boulevard. 

When  you  look  across  the  valley  at  the  ocean  and  the  bay, 
There's  a  charm  within  the  picture  that  will  never  fade  away, 
When  you  hear  the  birds  a-singing  as  they  make  the  welkin 

ring, 
You  may  think  they're  just  beginning,  but  they  sing  all  year 

like  spring. 

CHORUS — 

You  may  go  back  to  your  birthplace,  which  all  men  love 

so  well, 

But  you'll  always  have  a  longing  to  come  back  here  to  dwell, 
Where  the  climate  weaves  a  carpet  of  spring  colors  with  its 

loom, 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  mountains  and  the  poppies  are  in 

bloom. 


21 


OUR   POET 

There  is  a  bard  in  our  town, 
But  he  has  never  gained  renown. 

He's  never  apt  to  do  much  harm, 
He  mostly  writes  about  the  farm. 

The  neighbors  say  he's  pretty  good 
To  do  the  chores  and  bring  in  wood. 

He  seems  to  be  a  happy  guy, 
He  has  a  smile  when  others  cry. 

When  storms  arise  and  cold  winds  blow, 
He  seems  to  see  the  afterglow. 

And  when  his  daughter  buys  a  hat, 
He  don't  get  mad  and  kick  the  cat. 

But  says,  my  dear,  I  like  the  style, 
He's  happy  then  to  see  her  smile. 

And  when  the  boys  wear  out  their  shoes, 
He  doesn't  then  resort  to  booze. 

He  doesn't  put  his  head  to  soak, 
And  swear  he's  now  already  broke. 

And  when  they  say  he's  wasting  time, 
•In  writing  out  his  bughouse  rhyme, 

He  doesn't  even  slam  the  door, 

But  goes  outside  and  writes  some  more. 

Or  else  he  goes  behind  the  barn, 
Where  he  can  write  a  pleasant  yarn, 

About  the  geese,  the  ducks  and  hens, 
The  little  pigs,  and  lambs  in  pens, 

22 


And  while  he  sits  there  on  the  ground 
The  ducks  and  chickens  gather  round, 

For  all  the  stocks  upon  the  farm, 
He  seems  to  have  a  happy  charm. 

The  cat  comes  out  with  radiant  purr, 
She's  not  afraid  he'll  kick  at  her. 

And  there  beside  him  Towser  stands, 
Waiting  a  chance  to  lick  his  hands. 

Our  rhymster  in  his  little  way 
Makes  something  happy  every  day. 


GRANDMOTHER'S    HOPE 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  grandmother's  hope 

As  it  now  appears  to  me. 
Like  a  rainbow  it  spans  the  valley  of  life, 

From  birth  to  Eternity. 

I  can  see  her  now  in  her  white  frilled  cap, 
With  her  hair  so  smoothe  and  gray. 

The  image  of  her  and  that  bright  star  of  hope 
Will  never  fade  away. 

She  used  to  knit  of  a  winter's  night, 

Rocking  to  and  fro, 
Near  the  open  hearth  by  the  firelight, 

Singing  sweet  and  low. 

In  the  storms  of  life  when  others  might  quale, 
Her  bright  star  of  hope  would  glow, 

She  would  say  to  us,  tho'  her  voice  was  frail, 
It  might  have  been  worse,  you  know. 
23 


THE   VACATION 

Last  summer  I  was  glad  and  all  the  world  looked  good  to 

me, 

And  so  I  told  it  in  my  rhymes,  we  called  it  poetry. 
The  fields  and  woods  were  green  and  gold,  the  skies  were 

clear  and  blue, 
The  lanes  were  lined  with  wild  rose  bloom,  all  gemmed  with 

drops  of  dew. 

I  met  old  friends  of  other  days,  we  talked  of  vanquished 

joys, 
Of  husking  bees  and  spelling  schools  when  we  were  girls 

and  boys. 
They  praised  my  rhymes,  they  petted  me,  they  fed  me  pie 

and  cream, 
I  loafed  around  until  I  had  almost  a  poet's  dream. 

My  clothes  and  hair,  while  writing  rhymes,  all  badly  went 

to  seed, 
And  now  I'm  sad,  for  I  must  work  to  earn  new  clothes  and 

feed. 

I  hardly  know  which  is  the  best,  hard  work  or  idle  play, 
So  I  write  rhymes  at  leisure  times,  and  work  from  day  to 

day. 


24 


LOOKING   FORWARD 

I  mind  the  day  when  we  marched  away 

With  flags  and  banners  streaming, 
Our  suits  were  blue  and  our  guns  were  new 

And  bayonets  were  gleaming. 

With  playing  bands,  and  waving  hands, 

To  the  cruel  war  we  started, 
Midst  ringing  bells  and  sad  farewells, 

From  home  and  friends  we  parted. 

As  we  marched  along,  a  thousand  strong, 

With  Colonel  Edwards  leading 
Many  a  heart  was  sad  to  part 

From  wives  and  mothers  pleading. 

They  put  us  afloat  on  an  old  river  boat 

Whose  furnaces  were  glowing, 
With  hissing  steam  and  trembling  beam 

And  two  large  barges  towing. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  as  we  floated  down  stream 

To  our  place  of  destination, 
But  the  army  looked  fine  as  they  formed  there  in  line 

In  defense  of  the  flag  and  the  nation. 

With  a  long  wagon  train,  through  the  mud  and  the  rain, 

The  enemy's  trail  we  followed, 
Expecting  a  fight,  both  day  and  night, 

Through  rivers  and  swamps  we  wallowed. 

We  had  marched  all  night  by  the  pale  moon's  light, 

When  just  at  dawn  of  the  morning, 
The  enemy  stood  in  the  edge  of  the  wood 

And  without  a  moment's  warning, 

25 


With  a  blinding  flash  and  a  deafening  crash 

They  sent  their  bullets  flying, 
Then  turned  and  fled  while  our  wounded  bled 

And  Sergeant  Green  lay  dying. 

Midst  bursting  shells,  and  rebel  yells, 

And  comrades  'round  us  falling. 
Our  souls  were  tried  as  our  wounded  died; 

The  scene  was  most  appalling. 

But  through  the  strife,  with  drum  and  fife 

And  bugle  notes  inspiring, 
With  ringing  cheers,  we  curbed  our  fears 

Till  the  enemy  was  retiring. 

With  steady  pace,  we  kept  our  place 

Till  the  cruel  war  was  ended, 
Until  we  heard  that  joyous  word, 

The  enemy  has  surrendered. 

Then  as  we  turned  from  victories  earned 
And  from  war's  grim  scenes  we  hurried, 

We  slackened  our  pace  when  we  came  to  a  place 
In  the  fields  where  a  comrade  was  buried. 

We  thought  of  the  woes  of  our  fallen  foes 

And  their  homes  of  desolation, 
While  we  were  praised  with  loud  "hurrays" 

As  the  heroes  of  a  nation. 


26 


FISH   STORY 

As  I  sat  today  by  the  cottage  door 

And  dreamed  of  happy  days  of  yore 

A  group  of  boys  came  down  the  street 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  bare,  brown  feet. 

Each  had  his  line  and  fishing  pole, 

Bound  for  the  creek  and  fishing  hole, 

And  as  the  laddies  passed  me  by, 

It  made  me  think  I,  too,  might  try. 

I  laid  aside  my  story  book 

And  hunted  up  a  line  and  hook 

And  took  a  spade  to  dig  some  bait, — 

It  seemed  that  I  could  hardly  wait. 

I  first  dug  up  a  large  fat  grub, 

Emblem  of  the  Ananias  Club. 

With  pole  and  hook  and  fishing  sack 

I  followed  on  the  barefoot  track 

And  when  I  reached  the  river  bank, 

For  fear  the  boys  would  play  some  prank 

I  fojmd  a  quiet,  shady  nook, 

Unwound  my  line  and  cast  my  hook 

And  there  I  sat  till  nearly  night 

And  never  got  a  single  bite. 

But  when  the  boys  came  back  that  way 

With  strings  of  fish  they'd  caught  that  day, 

And  when  they  saw  me  look  so  glum, 

They  said,  "Grandpap,  we'll  give  you  some," 

I  said,  "No  thanks,  'twould  be  no  joy 

To  cat  fish  caught  by  some  other  boy. 

I  said,  "These  fish  look  small  to  me — 

Not  half  so  large  as  they  used  to  be; 

When  I  was  young  out  on  the  farm 

We  caught  fish  there  the  length  your  arm!" 

The  boys  all  looked  and  smiled  at  me 

And  said,  "Grandpap,  that  could  not  be, 

27 


But  we  all  like  the  tales  you  tell, 
At  least  they  have  the  fishy  smell." 
They  went  on  home  in  childish  glee 
And  left  the  bait  and  creek  with  me. 
Tonight  I'm  home,  my  feet  are  sore, 
I  guess  my  fishing  days  are  o'er. 
I  think  I'll  read  my  story  book 
And  catch  my  fish  with  a  silver  hook, 
And  sit  here  by  the  cottage  door — 
And  tell  my  fishing  tales  no  more; 
For  all  the  boys  they  laugh  at  me 
And  say  "Grandpap  that  couldn't  be." 
But  I  shall  fish  in  memory 
Where  fine  large  pickerel  used  to  be. 

Written  near  the  stream  where  I  used  to  fish  when  a  boy. 


OLD    SONGS 

There  are  no  songs  like  the  old  songs, 

The  songs  we  used  to  sing, 
With  the  birds  and  bees  in  the  maple  trees, 

We  made  the  welkin  ring. 

There  are  no  friends  like  the  old  friends, 

The  friends  we  used  to  know, 
As  girls  and  boys  they  shared  our  joys, 

In  the  long,  long  years  ago. 

There  are  no  boys  like  the  old  boys, 

The  boys  who  wore  the  blue; 
They  are  old  and  gray,  but  they  are  always  gay, 

And  as  friends  are  always  true. 

There  are  no  girls  like  the  old  girls, 

The  girls  we  went  to  see. 
They  have  silver  hair  and  lines  of  care, 

But  they  never  grow  old  to  me. 

28 


IN   MEMORY 

Today  when  I  read  that  Ann  Bartlett  was  dead, 

Her  image  came  back  to  my  view, 
For  when  but  a  boy  I  had  the  great  joy 

Of  knowing  that  woman  so  true. 

When  she  taught  in  our  school  it  was  always  her  rule, 

To  give  us  some  lesson  each  day, 
To  impress  on  each  mind  to  always  be  kind, 

In  schoolwork  or  when  at  our  play. 

And  through  all  the  years,  through  hopes  and  through  fears, 

Those  mottoes  have  lingered  with  me; 
I've  not  always  been  good,  many  times  I  have  stood 

And  waited  for  passion  to  flee. 

I  look  back  to  Mud  Creek  and  the  little  old  Brick, 

Where  Ann  Bartlett  taught  in  our  school, 
And  I  feel  that  each  life  has  been  helped  through  the  strife 

By  Ann  Bartlett's  kind  patient  rule. 

She  is  now  with  the  blest  in  their  places  of  rest, 
While  her  mottoes  grow  brighter  with  years, 

And  those  who  were  there  her  kindness  to  share, 
Will  mingle  with  flowers  their  tears. 


29 


A  SUMMER  TRIP— 1918 

I  traveled  afar  o'er  mountain  and  plains, 
Last  Spring  when  the  meadows  were  green, 

And  from  the  car  windows  of  swift-moving  trains, 
Caught  glimpse  of  a  wonderful  scene. 

As  we  crossed  the  coast  range  through  mountains  of  snow 

Looked  back  at  the  ocean  and  bay, 
O'er  the  orange  groves  'neath  the  sunset  glow, 

At  the  close  of  a  Springtime  day. 

We  dashed  o'er  the  plains  thro'  cactus  and  sand, 
Where  mirage  plays  hob  with  our  view, 

With  wonderful  pictures  of  a  fairy  land, 
That  glimmer  and  vanish  like  dew. 

I  saw  the  great  herds  of  the  bright  golden  wrest, 

The  harvest  just  turning  to  gold, 
The  corn  and  the  clover  when  looking  their  best, 
As  bloom  and  the  tassels  unfold. 

Met  friends  of  my  youth  in  their  Iowa  homes, 
Whose  friendship  has  never  grown  cold, 

They  give  a  glad  hand  to  a  brother  who  roams, 
And  welcome  him  back  to  the  fold. 

I  saw  the  green  leaves  of  the  maple  turn  gold, 

The  bloom  of  the  clover  turn  gray, 
And  heard  the  soft  notes  of  the  summer  birds  scold, 

As  autumn  winds  drove  them  away. 

When  the  cold  chilly  winds  came  down  from  the  north, 

And  painted  the  fields  with  white  frost; 
The  beauties  that  summer  and  spring  had  brought  forth. 

Were  changed  to  fall  colors,  not  lost. 
30 


The  change  was  so  still,  so  subtle  and  filled 
With  strains  on  the  heart's  tender  lute; 

And  played  by  the  wind  like  a  hand  that  is  skilled, 
On  the  reeds  of  the  grass  like  a  flute. 

I  saw  the  high  mountains  and  vast  rolling  seas, 

Great  land  scapes  not  painted  by  hand ; 
But  my  heart  is  most  moved  when  frost  paints  the  trees, 

In  the  woods  of  my  own  native  land. 

And  now  I  am  back  in  a  land  of  sunshine, 
Where  mocking  birds  sing  all  the  year; 

I  take  a  full  breath  of  the  atmosphere's  wine, 
And  know  I  am  glad  to  be  here. 


THE    FIFE   MAJOR 

Your  letter  brings  back  other  scenes  to  my  view 

When  we  were  young  soldiers  with  jackets  of  blue. 

I  see  the  Fife  Major  as  plain  as  in  life, 

And  I  hear  the  old  tunes  he  played  on  his  fife. 

The  Drum  Major's  call  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 

The  boys  in  their  places,  just  ready  to  play. 

In  memory  these  visions  come  back  now  to  me, 

And  I  hear  all  the  tunes  of  the  old  reveille. 

When  the  men  formed  in  line  arrayed  in  their  best, 

And  we  heard  the  command  "Battalion !  Parade !  Rest ! " 

It  makes  my  blood  tingle  to  think  how  we  played 

As  we  marched  down  the  line  when  on  dress  parade. 

The  quicksteps,  the  waltzes,  the  evening  tattoo, 

And  all  the  old  tunes  that  our  Fife  Major  knew, 

The  music  that  charmed  me  the  most  in  my  life 

Were  the  old  army  tunes  Hawk  played  on  his  fife. 

31 


THE   BLUE   AND   THE   GRAY 
A  VETERAN'S  REVIEW 

In  fancy  I'm  sailing  with 

Time  in  his  flight 
Reviewing  the  scenes  of 

My  boyhood  tonight. 

O'er  the  green  hills  of  hope 
Through  the  valley  of  fears 

I  am  riding  tonight 

On  the  tide  of  the  years. 

The  fields   and  the  meadows 
The  woodlands  near  by 

Where  the  clear  pools  reflect 
The  trees  and  the  sky. 

And  all  of  my  schoolmates — 

Their  faces  I  see, 
They  bow  and  they  smile 

And  they  all  wave  at  me. 

I  can  see  my  young  comrades 

In  battle  array 
On  the  right  is  the  blue 

On  the  left  is  the  gray. 

These  boys  they  were  brothers 
To  each  cause  they  were  true, 

But  out  on  the  right 

Waved  the  red,  white  and  blue. 

The  boys  in  the  gray  were 

Tigers  to  fight, 
But  no  power  could  conquer 

Old  glory  and  right. 


The  years  they  are  fleeting, 
These  boys  have  grown  old; 

But  their  love  for  old  glory 
Will  never  grow  cold. 

But  as  they  look  back 

Through  the  mist  of  the  years, 
For  the  blue  and  the  gray 

They  mingle  their  tears. 

And  all  the  green  mounds 

Both  sides  of  the  way 
Are  covered  with  flowers 

Memorial  day. 

But  yet  as  they  stand  in 

Their  niches  of  fame 
The  gray  will  be  ever 

An  emblem  of  shame. 

While  the  blue,  like  our  banner, 

Will  ever  grow  bright, 
The  emblem  of  justice 

Of  honor  and  right. 

Our  barque  it  is  drifting 

Toward  that  dim  shore, 
Where  pilgrims  all  land 

When  life's  battle  are  o'er. 

We  can  almost  see  them 

And  hear  them  hurrah 
As  they  march  in  one  line 

The  blue  and  the  gray. 


33 


DID  LINCOLN  KNOW? 

Did  Lincoln  pause  at  Gettysburg  or  hesitate 
To  guide  the  ship  of  state  straight  on? 

Could  he  see  through  the  fog  of  war,  man's  last  debate, 
Or  was  it  faith  he  leaned  upon? 

Or  when  he  saw  that  brilliant  foe  retreating, 
Did  hope  through  wisdom  see  the  end, 

Or  when  he  saw  dead  silent  spirits  fleeting, 
Did  wisdom  from  on  high  descend? 

Or  were  his  heartstrings  strained  so  near  to  breaking, 

That  each  vibration  thrilled  the  land, 
And  gave  each  loyal  heart  a  new  awakening, 

To  radiate  from  every  battle  stand? 

We  only  know  the  world  is  still  repeating, 

His  words  of  loyalty  and  love, 
And  as  the  stain  of  war  is  still  receding 

They  give  him  praise  through  powers  above. 


OUR   CHAPLAIN 

Like  a  shepherd  our  Chaplain  is  leading  his  flock, 
Through   green  pastures  and  meadows,  past  bramble  and 

rock, 

And  he  points  out  the  road  by  the  river  of  life, 
Where  the  righteous  shall  cease  from  all  trouble  and  strife. 

And  he  bids  us  be  good  for  the  sake  of  mankind, 

That  our  names  may  be  honored  by  friends  left  behind. 

He  prays  with  the  living  with  uncovered  head, 

And  of  flowers  makes  pillows  for  comrades  when  dead. 

His  words  are  a  comfort  for  those  in  distress, 
Though  sometimes  they  bring  tears  we  cannot  repress. 
But  tears  like  the  dewdrops  that  water  the  flowers, 
Are  gems  from  the  heart  in  life's  stormy  hours. 

34 


OCTOBER    IN    IOWA 

October,  0,  October,  we  doff  our  hats  to  you, 
The  springtime  nor  the  summer  had  skies  so  clear  and  blue ; 
They  raised  the  leaves  and  grasses,  like  other  years  of  old, 
But  then  October  painted  them  with  red,  with  brown  and 
gold. 

No  painter  with  his  brushes  has  ever  equaled  these, 
No  artist  can  mix  colors,  like  skies  and  clouds  or  seas ; 
October  weaves  a  carpet  of  spring  and  summer  leaves, 
While  farmers  gather  in  the  corn   and  thresh  the  golden 
sheaves. 

October  paints  the  pumpkins,  paints  the  apples  on  the  tree, 
October,  0,  October,  we  are  loathe  to  part  with  thee ; 
But  in  the  cold  December  when  snows  begin  to  fall, 
We   can  view  your  grand  old  paintings   as  they  hang   in 
memory's  hall. 

ROBERT   E.   LEE 

What  can  we  say  of  General  Lee,  the  man  of  southern  fame? 
As  we  look  back  we  now  can  see  the  luster  of  his  name, 
Just  like  some  lofty  mountain  peak  with  distance  seems  to 

grow, 
And  as  time's  setting  sun  goes  down  reflects  the  afterglow. 

He  made  one  fatal  great  mistake,  he  thought  it  duty's  call 
To  stand  up  loyally  with  his  state  to  conquer  or  to  fall; 
When  from  the  field  of  Gettysburg  he  made  his  great  re 
treat 
Then  with  the  heroes  of  his  state  he  bravely  met  defeat. 

His  statue  in  the  hall  of  fame  stands  near  the  highest  peaks 
With  lofty  mein  and  perfect  form  of  character  it  speaks; 
And   there  through   coming  years  will   stand   the   man   of 

southern  fame 
Admired  by  a  nation  wide  with  but  one  blotch  of  shame. 

35 


TO  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

When  I  read  the  songs  of  Riley, 

They  seem  played  on  nature's  band, 

And  I  see  the  moving  pictures 
That  he  paints  with  magic  wand. 

I  hear  the  brooks  a   laughing 

Where  the  winds  sings  through  the  trees, 
And  the  children's  shout  of  gladness 

And  the  song  of  birds  and  bees. 

I  can  hear  the  cows  a  mooing 
And  the  bleating  of  the  sheep, 

And  the  farmer's  voice  in  singing 
As  he  goes  to  sow  and  reap. 

I  can  hear  the  corn  leaves  fiddle 

Of  a  clear  November  morn 
And  I  see  the  frost  gems  glisten 

On  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 

And  he  takes  me  through  the  orchard 
Where  the  children  used  to  play 

And  we  look  across  the  valley, 
At  the  stacks  of  clover  hay. 

At  the  horses  in  the  pasture 

And  the  droves  of  other  stock, 

And  we  look  across  the  valley, 
Where  the  fodder's  in  the  shock. 

Now  the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin 
And  the  Autumn  almost  gone, 

And  he  feels  the  chill  of  winter 
As  old  age  is  coming  on. 

36 


Now  may  love  and  hope  still  guide  him  on 

Through  all  the  afterwhiles, 
For  he  made  the  world  seem  brighter 

With  his  happy  songs  and  smiles. 


THE   WATER   SONG 

We  are  charmed  with  the  song  of  the  ocean 
As  we  wander  along  by  its  shore; 

Its  waves  give  us  thrills  of  emotion 

When  they  dash  on  the  rocks  with  a  roar. 

But  the  water  songs  of  the  mountains 
Are  the  ones  that  most  allure  me 

From  the  bubbling  springs  at  its  fonuntains 
Till  it  dashes  away  to  the  sea. 

As  it  ripples  along  through  the  dells 

In  shade  of  the  old  sycamore, 
With  its  music  like  tinkling  of  bells, 

Give  charm  to  the  wild  rocky  shore. 

And  then  with  a  splashing  and  bounding 
It  dashes  with  spray  o'er  the  falls 

With  echoes  like  music  resounding 

Through  the  canyon's  high  towering  walls. 

The  lure  and  the  charm  of  the  canyon, 
Where  the  trails  are  rugged  and  steep, 

Like  the  soothing  songs  of  the  ocean, 
Its  water  songs  lull  us  to  sleep. 

37 


THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFT 

We  look  upon  your  Christmas  gift 
And  see  your  face  as  through  a  rift ; 
In  winter's  clouds  o'er  many  miles 
And  feel  the  magic  of  your  smiles. 

And  every  stitch  your  hands  have  wrought, 
Conveys  to  us  some  pleasant  thought; 
The  threads  that  form  each  loop  apart 
Are  treasured  gifts  from  your  dear  heart. 

And  as  the  fabric  we  unfold, 
We  read  the  story  you  have  told; 
Of  home,  of  friends  and  native  climes 
Where  we  have  met  at  Christmas  time. 

The  purest  love  within  the  heart 
Is  never  felt  until  we  part; 
The  hidden  beauty  of  the  rose 
Is  never  seen  till  buds  unclose. 


WHEN    PEACE    MAY   COME 

0  speed  the  day  when  time  shall  come 
That  all  men  live  in  peace  at  home, 
When  flowers  bloom  and  grain   fields  yield 
On  every  present  battlefield. 

When  over  all  peace  flags  shall  wave, 
The  German,  English.  French  and  Slav; 
And  may  the  Austrian  and  the  Turk, 
Return  from  war  to  peaceful  work. 

38 


When  far-off  Russia's  steppy  plains 
Shall  gleam  again  with  golden  grains 
And  sunny  France's  vineclad  hills 
With  bounteous  crops  fill  empty  mills. 

When  from  the  German  on  the  Rhine 
Old  England  buys  her  choicest  wine, 
And  Japan  peace  to  China  bring, 
Then  all  the  world  with  joy  will  sing. 

When  all  rhankind  adopt  the  plan 
Of  Peace  on  Earth,  goodwill  to  man, 
And  love  shall  shine  from  every  door, 
Then  cruel  war  may  be  no  more. 


JUNE 

0,  what  a  boon,  these  days  of  June 
With  skies  so  clear  and  blue; 

When  purple  haze,  through  summer  days 
Veil  mountains  from  our  view. 

The  birds  and  bees  sing  through  the  trees 

The  children  shout  for  joy 
When  flowers  bloom  with  sweet  perfume 

And  June  brides  look  so  coy. 

June  never  stays  but  thirty  days, 

For  time  glides  swiftly  on; 
Brides  of  today  next  year  will  say, 

"My  last  year's  bloom  is  gone." 

Alas,  how  soon,  life's  days  of  June 

Fly  past  to  autumn  time, 
And  then  the  year  grows  brown  and  sear 

And  winter  rings  his  chime. 
39 


THE  MISS-NAMED  MOCKING  BIRD 

I  sat  one  day  beneath  a  pepper  tree, 
And  heard  the  son* of  birds  I  could  not  see. 
Catbird,  Chicadee/Bob-white  and  Rain  Crow, 
Birds  in  childhood  we  all  used  to  know. 

Peeking  through  the  leaves,  out  upon  a  limb, 
Sat  a  single  mocking  bird,  clean  and  trim ; 
With  liquid  notes  he  made  his  native  trill, 
Then  sank  the  bobolink  and  whippoorwill. 

And  when  some  other  birds  came  flying  near, 
With  ruffled  plume  he  cried  "Killdeer,  Killdeer!" 
And  when  he  sang  his  evening  song  at  night, 
I  plainly  heard  him  say  "Bob-white,  Bob-white!" 

How  can  he  mock  the  songs  he  never  heard, 
This  native  California  mocking  bird, 
And  so  I  think  he  does  not  mock  but  sing, 
And  make  the  whole  year  seem  to  us  like  spring. 


THE    JUNE    BRIDE 

The  bride  and  groom  walked  down  the  street, 
He  seemed  so  pleased,  she  looked  so  neat; 
Bright  as  the  summer's  morning  bloom 
W'ere  hopes  of  this  June  bride  and  groom. 

I  stood  and  gazed  as  one  who  hears 
The  wedding  bells  of  vanished  years, 
And  though,  Ah,  me!  alas,  how  soon 
The  roses  fade  that  bloom  in  June. 

40 


And  leaf  by  leaf  are  blown  away, 
Return  to  earth  and  soon  decay; 
And  where  they  fall  the  sun  and  rain, 
Bring  forth  new  forms  of  life  again. 

And  so  it  is  with  man  and  maid, 
Their  cherished  hopes  of  life  may  fade; 
Yet  like  the  faded  flowers  of  June 
Return  in  others  forms  full  soon. 


OUR   WINTER   ROSE 

Our  winter  rose  in  summer  clothes 
With  bloom  of  youth  aglow, 

Stands  here  beside  and  tries  to  hide 
Her  blushes  in  the  snow. 

You  dainty  bud  of  wintertime, 
I  fear  you'll  fade  too  soon; 

Your  sister  came  in  early  spring 
And  reached  her  prime  in  June. 

She  filled  the  air  with  fragrance  rare 
Till  autumn  took  her  bloom, 

And  then  you  came  in  her  sweet  name 
To  cheer  the  winter's  gloom. 

If  you  can  live  good  cheer  to  give 
Through  winter's  cold  and  rain, 

Until  the  spring  warm  days  shall  bring 
Then  she'll  return  again. 

She  may  wear  gems  of  sparkling  dew 
And  bloom  when  sunsets  glow, 

But  she  can  never  rival  you 
When  blooming  in  the  snow. 

41 


THE    DEAD   MOCKING   BIRD 

A  mocking  bird  sang  in  the  old  pepper  tree, 
And  the  notes  of  her  song  were  low; 

She  seemed  to  be  trying  to  beckon  to  me, 
Turned  her  head  to  look  down  below. 

And  when  I  was  cautiously  turning  away, 
She  came  fluttering  around  my  head ; 

I  think  she  was  trying  in  bird  talk  to  say, 
"My  comrade  and  lover  is  dead." 

So  strange  were  her  actions,  I  looked  all  around, 
At  first  I  could  not  understand; 
I  looked  first  at  the  tree  and  then  on  the  ground, 
And  there  laid  her  lover,  our  friend. 

Nobody  could  tell  how  he  met  his  sad  fate, 
Not  a  plume  nor  a  feather  was  wrong; 

He  lay  'neath  the  tree  where  his  lover  and  mate 
Was  singing  her  sweet  morning  song. 

As  we  carried  him  out  to  his  little  grave, 
That  we  dug  near  the  garden  wall, 

We  thought  of  the  joy  and  the  pleasure  he  gave, 
Though  the  gift  of  his  song  was  all. 

A  glorious  thing  is  the  gift  of  a  song, 

As  life  we  go  traveling  through; 
Then  make  life  a  song  as  you  journey  along, 

And  the  songs  will  be  given  to  you. 


42 


GREETING 

With  regrets  I  send  this  greeting 

To  my  comrades  far  away, 
At  their  annual  reunion, 

Of  the  Eighteenth  Iowa. 

Many  weeks  I  have  been  planning, 
Waiting  for  the  time  to  come, 

When  I'd  wake  the  camp  some  morning 
With  the  rattle  of  my  drum. 

But  sometimes  our  plans  are  failures, 
And  we  cannot  make  them  budge, 

We  must  wait  the  pleas  of  lawyers, 
And  the  ruling  of  the  judge. 

So  today  I'm  disappointed 
That  I  cannot  make  the  trip, 

But  my  spirit  will  be  with  you, 

And  my  hand  will  feel  your  grip. 

I  had  pictured  the  surprises 

I  would  see  on  every  face, 
When  they  saw  their  little  drummer 

In  his  old  accustomed  place. 

I  was  but  a  little  drummer, 
Yet  I  heard  the  shot  and  shell, 

For  I  marched  in  line  of  battle 
When  our  noble  heroes  fell. 

Now,  in  dreams  I  hear  the  bugle, 
And  the  rattle  of  the  drum, 

As  you  men  turn  out  to  roll  call, 
And  the  camp  begins  to  hum. 

43 


When  so  many  do  not  answer, 

As  the  names  each  year  are  read, 

Comes  the  answer  like  an  echo, 
Oh,  my  sergeant,  they  are  dead. 

Yet,  my  comrades,  they  were  heroes, 
Though  they  died  in  civil  life, 

For  they  risked  their  lives  for  country, 
When  assailed  with  bitter  strife. 

Year  by  year  our  ranks  are  thinning, 
Names  are  fading  from  the  roll, 

But  through  ages  they'll  be  shining, 
Carved  on  fame's  immortal  scroll. 

Sept.  2nd,  1915,  Pasadena,  Calif. 


THE   MISSION   BELLS 

The  Mission  bells  with  silver  chimes, 
Ring  echoes  of  the  olden  times, 
When  Holy  Mission  Fathers  came 
Proclaiming  Jesus'  sacred  name. 

No  more  they  hear  these  Mission  bells, 
But  in  its  chimes  their  spirit  dwells, 
When  those  who  ring  these  bells  today 
Like  summer  leaves  have  passed  away. 

Others  then  from  crumbling  walls, 
With  these  old  chimes  will  sing  the  calls, 
And  in  the  ages  coming  still, 
Ring  peace  on  earth  to  man,  good  will. 

44 


THE   ROSES    THAT   SPEAK   TO   ME 

A  rose  tree  stands  beside  my  door 
Whose  branches  reach  from  roof  to  floor. 
When  roses  bloom  upon  that  tree 
They  seem  to  always  speak  to  me. 

And  when  they  nod  as  soft  winds  blow, 
They  seem  like  friends  we  used  to  know; 
Long  years  ago  one  summer  day, 
We  called  on  them  along  the  way. 

They  gave  us  cuttings  from  a  bush, 
Asked  us  to  plant  them  with  a  wish. 
We  planted  one  beside  our  door, 
The  wish  I  never  thought  of  more. 

For  in  the  busy  time  of  life, 

When  days  are  filled  with  work  and  strife, 

We  soon  forget  the  little  things 

That  in  life's  autumn  pleasure  brings. 

When  naught  is  left  but  memory 
As  we  look  back  we  then  can  see; 
And  voices  of  the  past  we  hear 
Whose  music  now  we  hold  most  dear. 

And  so  the  flowers  on  that  tree 
Seem  to  always  speak  to  me; 
And  in  the  blossoms  I  can  see 
The  one  who  gave  the  bush  to  me. 

I  saw  her  first  just  as  she  stood 
A  rosebud  bloom  to  womanhood, 
And  now  I  see  her  golden  hair, 
Silvered  with  a  mother's  care. 

45 


MEMORIAL  ADDRESS 

Following  is  the  beautiful  memorial  tribute,  read  by 
Comrade  Kinsman: 

"As  we  meet  today  to  pay  our  tribute  of  respect  to  the 
memory  of  our  departed  comrades  and  friends,  I  cannot 
say  that  they  are  dead,  for  in  nature  nothing  dies. 

"  'Leaf  by  leaf  the  roses  fall, 

Drop  by  drop  the  springs  run  dry, 

One  by  one  we  drop  into  that  dreamless  sleep 

That  knows  no  wakening.' 

"Life  is  eternal,  always  was  and  always  will  be.  It  is  just 
as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  born.  We  are  governed  largely  by 
departed  spirits,  whose  examples  we  try  to  follow.  Life  is 
like  the  evolution  of  water,  the  stream  running  down  the 
mountain  side  from  its  fountain  head,  meandering  its  way 
across  the  valley  and  plain,  till  at  last  it  reaches  the  ocean, 
there  again  to  be  taken  up  in  vapor  and  clouds,  again  to  be 
returned  in  the  form  of  rain,  snow  and  dewdrops. 

"This  has  been  going  on  through  the  endless  ages  of 
time,  and  yet  there  is  no  more  nor  less  water  than  there 
was  ten  thousand  years  ago. 

"The  leaves  of  the  trees  wither  with  age  and  fall  to  the 
ground,  moulder  away  and  return  to  the  earth  from  which 
new  forms  of  life  arise.  We  live  and  love  and  labor,  and  in 
a  little  while,  like  the  leaves  and  the  flowers,  we  pass  away, 
leaving  but  a  memory  for  the  loved  and  loving  friends  that 
we  leave  behind.  They  soon  will  pass  away,  and  so  it  has 
been  throughout  the  ages. 

"Time,  space  and  eternity  are  beyond  our  frail  com 
prehensions.  The  present  alone  is  ours.  Let  us  earnestly 
endeavor  to  do  our  part  while  we  live,  ever  striving  in  our 
weakness  to  live  honest,  useful,  upright  lives,  not  alone  for 
ourselves,  but  for  the  good  of  all,  always  ready  to  extend 

46 


the  warm  handclasp  to  friend  or  an  erring  brother,  no  mat 
ter  what  his  birth  or  creed.  Let  us  practice  as  well  as 
preach  kindness  and  justice  and  be  generous  in  charity  to 
all,  and  then  the  world  will  be  better  by  our  having  lived 
in  it. 

"When  it  comes  our  time  to  lay  down  the  burdens  of 
life,  then  we,  too,  shall  return  to  the  mother  earth,  we  will 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  we  have  done  our  best, 
our  work  will  be  a  pleasant  memory  and  a  higher  inspira 
tion  to  those  who  come  after  us.  Some  of  the  most  plain 
and  honest  lives  have  been  immortalized  in  poetry  and  song. 

"A  short  time  ago  1  was  sitting  at  the  funeral  of  a  de 
parted  friend  whose  life  had  been  so  pure  and  useful  that  I 
said  what  a  beautiful  ending  it  was  to  a  noble  life.  I  put 
my  thoughts  into  verse  as  a  humble  tribute  to  her  memory. 
May  the  spirit  of  these  lines  be  applied  to  the  departed  sis 
ters  and  comrades  for  whom  we  meet  to  pay  our  tribute  of 
respect  today: 

"0  soft  winds,  blow  gently,  disturb  not  her  sleep; 
Our  sister  is  resting  now — why  should  we  weep? 
The  road  has  been  long,  the  hills  have  been  steep, 
And  now,  being  weary,  age  lulls  her  to  sleep. 

"Once  she  was  young,  with  a  step  like  the  fawn, 
With  cheeks  like  the  rose  at  the  blush  of  the  dawn ; 
She  was  brave,  kind  and  gentle,  always  so  true ; 
She  loved  the  green  hills  where  the  wild  flowers  grew. 

"She  loved  music  and  song,  the  bells'  silver  chime, 
Her  bright  star  of  hope,  and  her  faith  was  sublime; 
She  was  firm,  like  the  oak,  in  life's  stormy  hours, 
But  in  its  sunshine  was  both  vine  and  flowers. 

"With  tired  hands  folded  across  her  still  breast — 
0  song  birds,  sing  softly,  disturb  not  her  rest! 
Sweet  flowers,  the  tributes  kind  neighbors  send, 
Farewell,  gentle  mother,  kind  sister,  true  friend. 

47 


0.  W.  Kinsman  read  an  original  poem  on  Washington. 
The  poem  follows: 

There  was,  there  is,  no  greater  name 
Nor  statue  in  the  Hall  of  Fame, 

Than  our  great  Washington. 
He  stands  majestic  and  the  peer 
Of  all  the  great  men,  far  and  near, 

The  world  has  looked  upon. 

The  boy  who  could  not  tell  a  lie 
As  man  was  always  honored  high 

For  being  brave  and  true. 
He   stood   alone  till  Lincoln   died, 
But  now  in  grandeur  side  by  side, 

A  nation  honors  two. 

Both  brave  of  spirit,  true  of  heart, 
They  served  the  world  a  noble  part 

And  earned  an  honored  name. 
And  through  the  ages  they  will  stand, 
The  heroes  of  a  free-born  land, 

Within  the  Hall  of  Fame. 


SWEET   ALICE 

Through  pale  shimmering  light,  like  silvery  moonbeams 
I  saw  my  Sweet  Alice  last  night  as  in  dreams; 
I  called  her  Sweet  Alice  one  eve  as  we  walked 
Through  sweet-scented  woods  and  of  flowers  we  talked. 

When  at  her  home  gate  as  I  turned  to  depart 
She  pinned  a  Sweet  William  just  over  my  heart, 
I  drifted  away  to  the  bright  Golden  West 
With  the  scent  of  the  flower  still  pinned  to  my  breast 

43 


Poor  Alice,  she  married  a  man  of  small  worth, 
A  poor  noxious  weed  to  encumber  the  earth; 
Long  years  like  flowers  have  faded  away, 
Sweet  Alice  and  I  have  grown  old  and  gray. 

Last  night  when  I  read  that  her  spirit  had  flown 
I  thought  how  I  called  her  Sweet  Alice,  my  own, 
And  then  as  I  saw  her  in  memory  through  tears, 
I  knew  how  love  lingers  with  us  through  the  years. 


My  first  sweetheart. 


A   VIEW   FROM   THE   MOUNTAINS 

I  stand  today  on  the  mountain  side, 
And  look  away  to  the  oceantide, 

Some  thirty  miles  away; 

The  mountain  tops  are  capped  with  snow, 

Reflecting  back  the  sunset  glow, 
O'er  valley,  sea  and  bay. 

The  fields  are  green,  the  skies  are  blue, 
The  hillsides  gleam  with  magic  hue 

Where  yellow  poppies  grow; 
And  as  I  look  it  seems  to  me 

The  skies  come  down  to  meet  the  sea 
Where  great  ships  come  and  go. 

The  mountain  sides  are  white  and  cold, 
Near  orange  groves  of  green  and  gold, 

That  mingle  with  the  town; 

Where  Pasadena's  vineclad  homes, 

Her  great  hotels,  and  high  church  domes, 
Sit  like  a  jeweled  crown. 

March,  1911. 

49 


EVENING 

Have  you  watched  these  summer  evenings 
Just  between  the  day  and  night, 

When  the  sun  reflects  those  colors, 
Of  its  magic  shade  and  light? 

Just  above  the  distant  hilltop, 

Where  the  sky  seems  painted  green, 

To  the  dark  blue  shades  of  evening 
Wondrous  colors  are  between. 

When  the  silver  moon  is  rising 
And  the  sun  sinks  out  of  sight, 

Clouds  all  colors  of  the  rainbow 
Wheel  in  columns  left  and  right. 

Tongue  nor  pen  cannot  describe  them 

As  the  magic  scenes  unroll. 
W^eak  are  songs  of  all  the  poets 

When  compared  to  nature's  scroll. 

And  no  painter  with  the  brushes 

Can  begin  to  equal  these, 
For  no  chemist  has  mixed  colors 

To  compare  with  clouds  or  seas. 

Wondrous  scenes  has  California, 

Flowers,  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

And  the  calm,  cool.,  pleasant  evenings 
With  the  sunset's  afterglow. 


50 


THE   KNOCKER 

Through  the  warm  spring  days  I  sang  my  lays 

And  listened  to  the  Mocker, 
And  then  I  heard  a  loud  harsh  word, 

It  was  the  public  knocker. 

He  fills  my  ears  with  kicks  and  jeers, 

About  the  sins  of  smoking. 
This  same  old  croak,  he  may  not  smoke, 

But  fills  the  air  to  choking. 

He  uses  tar  for  his  catarrh, 

And  diets  well  on  onions. 
He  may  have  holes  in  his  shoe  soles, 

So  we  can  smell  his  bunions. 

When  on  a  car  I  see  how  far 

I  get  from  this  old  bluffer, 
The  truth  to  tell,  don't  like  the  smell, 

Of  this  old  public  duffer. 

It  fills  my  breast  with  peaceful  rest 

When  on  my  journey  going, 
To  see  men  smoke  just  for  a  joke 

To  keep  his  talk  from  flowing. 

If  you  don't  smoke,  please  do  not  croak, 
You  may  have  w7arts  or  bunions. 

I'd  rather  far  smell  a  cigar, 
Than  get  one  whiff  of  onions. 

It  makes  me  sick  to  hear  folks  kick 

About  the  faults  of  others. 
It's  best  to  sing  like  birds  of  spring, 

And  meet  each  day  like  brothers. 
51 


THE   BATHING   SUITS 

I've  walked  along  the  ocean  strand, 
Where  women  lounge  upon  the  sand, 
And  watch  their  daughters  swim  and  play, 
In  gaudy  suits  made  for  display. 

Some  blue,  some  red,  some  purple,  white, 
Some  long,  some  short,  some  loose,  some  tight, 
But  all  were  made  for  man's  delight, 
To  please  the  mind,  to  catch  the  sight. 

But  years  ago,  not  far  from  here, 
The  scene  comes  back  to  view  so  clear, 
Bob  and  me  and  Jim  and  Bill, 
One  day  while  playing  on  the  hill, 

Heard  someone  swimming  in  the  brook, 
Of  course,  we  could  not  help  but  look, 
And  there  we  saw  some  country  girls 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flowing  curls. 

The  girls  were  having  lots  of  fun, 
And  now  we  fellows  darstn't  run, 
For  fear  the  girls  would  hear  the  noise 
And  all  would  say  "What  naughty  boys!" 

And  me  and  Bob  and  Jim  and  Bill 
Agreed  we'd  always  keep  it  still. 
Through  all  the  years  from  that  day  to  this, 
The  girls  have  lived  in  ignorant  bliss. 

I  could  not  tell  a  single  name, 

For  all  the  girls  were  dressed  the  same. 

I  never  told  no  one  before, 

But  now  I'll  tell  you  what  they  wore. 

They  beat  the  girls  along  the  beach, 
For  each  was  dressed  just  like  a  peach. 

52 


THE    LOOM    OF   LIFE 

We  often  judge  men  by  the  clothes  that  they  wear, 
And  poets  are  judged  by  the  cut  of  their  hair. 
Each  life  weaves  a  fabric  peculiar  its  own, 
Like  the  fields  reproduce  the  seeds  that  are  sown. 

We  weave  in  and  out,  like  a  shuttle  through  life, 
Through  woof  of  adventure  and  warp  of  grim  strife. 
The  acts  of  our  lives  are  the  threads  that  we  weave, 
The  colors  are  brilliant  and  do  not  deceive. 

Each  act  of  kindness  adds  a  bright  silver  thread. 

Smiles,  just  like  sunbeams,  through  the  fabric  will  spread. 

Devotion  to  duty  will  add  to  its  strength; 

True  friendship  and  loyalty  add  to  its  length. 

The  threads  that  we  weave  with  our  yellow  deceit, 
Will  show  just  as  plain  as  to  lie  and  to  cheat. 
These  bright  yellow  threads  with  fast  colors  will  hold, 
Though  we  try  to  conceal  them  with  tinsel  and  gold. 

There's  a  magic  in  colors  in  songs  that  we  sing, 
Like  the  sunshine  and  rain  bring  flowers  of  spring. 
With  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity  all  woven  in 
Are  the  bright-colored  threads  of  our  life  that  we  spin. 

With  the  threads  that  we  spin  through  sunshine  and  gloom, 
We  weave  in  the  cloth  of  our  lives  on  its  loom. 
If  we  could  but  trample  these  thoughts  in  the  dust, 
All  vanity,  jealousy,  hatred  and  lust, 

And  not  let  them  stain  the  clean  threads  of  our  lives 
The  clothes  would  fit  better  on  husbands  and  wives, 
And  their  children  with  cheeks  that  bloom  like  the  rose 
Would  ne'er  have  to  blush  when  they  looked  at  their  clothes. 

53 


54 


THE    BABY'S    FIRST   TOOTH 

We  thought  at  first  'twould  be  more  joy, 
If  when  you  came  you'd  been  a  boy; 
Already  we  had  two  fine  girls 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  curls. 

A  boy  we  had  so  doted  on 
We  called  you  our  young  Marion, 
But  since  you've  cut  that  baby  tooth 
I  honest  think  we  tell  the  truth 
When  we  look  at  your  dancing  eyes 
And  see  that  smile  like  summer  skies. 

And  see  through  rosy  lips  that  purl, 
We  thank  the  stars  they  sent  a  girl. 
No  boy  should  ever  be  so  fair, 
We  love  you  best  just  as  you  are. 


55 


SINCE   MOTHER   WENT   AWAY 

The  shadows  linger  on  the  distant  hill, 
The  winter  days  at  night  grow  damp  and  chill; 
The  days  seem  longer  and  the  night  more  still 
Since  Mother  went  away. 

The  old  house  is  so  lonely  now  at  night, 
The  gas  jet  seems  to  cast  a  weird  light, 
The  night  winds  seem  to  blur  my  failing  sight, 
Since  Mother  went  away. 

Her  spirit  seems  to  come  with  twilight  gloom, 
And  while  the  breath  of  flowers  fills  the  room 
She  speaks  to  us  through  rosebud  lips  in  bloom, 
Since  Mother  went  away. 

The  things  she  put  away  with  so  much  care 
It  seems  that  she  had  always  kept  them  there; 
In  all  the  rooms  we  find  them  everywhere, 
Since  Mother  went  away. 

We  feel  the  touch  in  things  her  hands  have  made, 
The  flowers  in  her  vacant  room  may  fade, 
Yet  memory  owes  the  debt  her  love  has  paid, 
Since  Mother  went  away. 

Our  mourning  hearts  now  feel  that  it  is  best 
That  from  all  pain  and  care  she  is  at  rest, 
We  know  her  pure  clean  life  has  stood  the  test; 
Since  Mother  went  away. 


56 


GRANDPAP   AND   THE    BABY 

Just  over  the  way  I  go  every  day, 
To  take  John  some  papers  to  keep, 

And  when  I  get  there,  I  just  take  a  chair, 
And  ask  "Is  the  baby  asleep?" 

I  guess  I'm  a  goose  to  make  an  excuse, 

It's  the  baby  I  go  to  see, 
And  when  I  peek  in  she  dimples  her  chin, 

And  says  "Ah  Goo"  to  me. 

With  her  red  rosy  lips  and  pink  finger  tips, 

She  lures  me  now  over  there, 
The  blue  in  her  eyes  like  the  blue  of  the  skies, 

Helps  drive  away  worry  and  care. 

It  is  pleasant  to  stay  and  watch  her  at  play, 
But  at  home  I  have  chores  to  do, 

So  I  say,  Little  Miss,  you  are  too  sweet  to  kiss, 
And  she  says  to  me  "Ah  Goo!" 


57 


WHEN  THEY  TOOK  BABY  MARIAN  CAMPING 

As  I  lay  on  my  bed  of  sick  and  pain 

And  wondered  how  soon  I  would  be  well  again, 

My  little  granddaughter  came  in  every  day 

With  her  sweet  smiles  and  dimples  to  drive  care  away. 

As  I  look  in  her  eyes,  so  steadfast  and  mild, 

There's  nothing  as  pure  as  the  love  of  a  child. 

She  brought  me  a  rose,  bless  her  dear  little  heart, 

They  were  going  away,  near  ready  to  start. 

The  rose  was  as  white  as  the  lily  or  snow, 

A  beautiful  flower  just  ready  to  blow, 

I  took  the  sweet  bud  from  her  small  dimpled  hand 

And  then  I  went  back  to  my  babyhood  land. 

And  I  wondered  again  if  it  really  could  be, 
That  I  had  been  young  and  as  happy  and  free: 
And  wondered,  was  I  in  my  childhood  as  pure, 
Like  her,  could  I  then  with  my  dimples  allure? 
Would  the  butterfly  stop  and  rest  on  his  wing 
To  hear  the  sweet  sound  of  a  baby  voice  sing. 

She  mingles  her  voice  with  the  mocking  birds'  song, 

And  still  in  my  memory  the  echos  prolong. 

I  look  through  the  clouds  at  the  silver  moon's  light 

And  think  of  that  baby  in  slumber  tonight; 

And  thoughts  of  her  coming  still  lessen  the  pain 

When  they  bring  that  sweet  baby  back  home  again. 


58 


LETTER   TO   EDITH 

WHEN  THE  CHILDREN  WENT  AWAY 

I  thought  of  you  and  the  children  as  I  sat  at  home  today, 
And  looked  around  at  the  trinkets  with  which  they  used 

to  play. 

Your  ma  is  on  the  sofa  and  she  don't  have  much  to  say, 
And  the  old  house  seems  quite  lonely,  since  the  children 
went  away. 

And  when  I  think  how  Bobby  rubbed  his  soft  hands  on  my 

face. 
I  guess  I  am  weak  and  childish,  for  teardrops  take  their 

place. 

We  used  to  sit  at  evening  time  and  watch  the  cars  go  by, 
And  when  the  purple  night  shades  came  we'd  sing  our 
lullaby. 

Until  the  children  cuddled  down  and  softly  went  to  sleep 
And  we'd  sit  and  watch  them  until  stars  began  to  peep, 

And  now  I  sit  and  think  of  them  until  the  night  grows  gray, 
For  the  old  house  seems  so  lonely  since  the  children  went 
away. 


59 


60 


TO    DOROTHY 

In  youth  when  Dorothy  played  among  the  flowers 

She  did  not  seem  like  other  girls, 
But  with  her  songs  she  whiled  away  the  hours, 

While  sunbeams  played  among  her  curls. 

And  there  among  the  garden's  sweet  perfume, 
Beneath  the  deep  blue  summer  skies, 

Upon  her  cheek  a  June  rose  left  its  bloom, 
While  slumber  closed  her  baby  eyes. 


AFTER   THE   RAIN 

After  the  rain  is  over  and  the  sun  is  shining  out, 

And  we  hear  all  nature  singing,  it  makes  one  want  to  shout. 

After  the  rain  is  over  and  the  poppies  are  in  bloom, 
With  the  green  fields  clothed  in  sunshine,  there  is  no  place 
left  for  gloom. 

After  the  rain  is  over  and  the  mountains  seem  to  near, 
There  is  something  so  inspiring  about  the  atmosphere. 

After  the  rain  is  over  and  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
You  should  go  out  in  the  woodlands  and  hear  the  welkin 
ring. 

After  life's  storms  are  over  will  we  through  gates  ajar, 
View  a  land  beyond  the  border  that  hope  has  seen  afar? 

61 


WHEN  DOROTHY  GOT  THE  GLASSES 

Dorothy  comes  and  takes  my  glasses, 
Says  the  sunshine  hurts  her  eyes; 

Then  I  see  through  drooping  lashes, 
Eyes  like  diamonds  in  the  skies. 

When  I  say,  no  dear,  you'll  break  them 

If  I  let  you  have  them  now. 
I  just  want  to  look  like  grandma, 

With  the  glasses  I'll  know  how. 

Tell  me  not  there  is  no  passion 

In  the  child  of  tender  years, 
For  I've  watched  our  little  Dorothy 

When  glad  laughter  followed  tears. 

When  the  sun  shines  on  her  ringlets 
And  they  gleam  like  golden  thread, 

We  can  see  storm  passions  gather 
When  she  shakes  her  curly  head. 

Then  like  dew  drops,  two  tears  sparkle 
On  her  cheeks  where  roses  stay; 

Soon  her  eyes  and  lips  are  all  laughing, 
For  I  let  her  have  her  way. 

Then  she  says,  grandpa,  I  love  you, 
With  her  arms  around  my  neck. 

If  I  had  a  will  like  iron 

She  could  make  of  it  a  wreck. 

So  the  children  overrule  me, 

Now  that  I  am  old  and  gray, 
But  if  they  should  always  love  me 

They  can  mostly  have  their  way. 
62 


TO  STELLA 

Under  the  snow  so  pure  and  so  white 
Your  baby  is  sleeping  with  angels  tonight. 
Our  hearts  are  sad.  for  we  loved  her  so, 
But  since  it  is  willed  that  she  should  go, 

It  is  only  fitting  she  should  lie, 
Under  the  snow  and  the  clear  blue  sky; 
For  her  life  was  as  pure  and  heart  as  true, 
As  the  snow  is  white  and  the  sky  is  blue. 

We  weep  with  you  in  our  sympathy, 
But  baby  still  lives  in  our  memory. 
The  gems  with  which  I  would  not  part 
Are  the  baby  faces  in  my  heart. 


63 


64 


ON   THE   FARM   AT   ALPAUGH 

Us  kids  are  busy  all  the  time  out  here  upon  the  farm; 
We  find  so  many  things  to  do  the  city's  lost  its  charm ; 
We  have  the  horses  and  the  colt,  the  chickens  and  the  cow, 
And  grandpa  shows  us  how  to  milk,  he  says  we  must  learn 
how. 

We  all  climb  on  old  Luly's  back,  she  never  runs  away; 

We  ride  across  the  fields,  we  have,  the  whole  outdoors  for 

play 

And  when  our  Daddy  hauls  in  hay  we  ride  upon  the  load, 
Then  when  the  wagon  crawls  along  we  play  it  is  a  toad. 

We  have  three  rabbits  in  a  box  they  are  the  Belgian  hare; 
For  fear  they  might  all  runaway  we  have  to  keep  them  here. 
The  fields  are  full  of  rabbits  here,  some  cottontails  and 

jacks, 
You'd  think  there  was  a  million  here,  they  leave  so  many 

tracks. 

We  have  our  playhouse  in  the  shed  where  Daddy  keeps  his 

tools; 
We  place  our  dollies  in  their  seats,  they  never  break  the 

rules ; 

We  have  a  swing,  a  box  of  sand  and  other  things  like  that. 
Oh,  yes,  I  most  forgot  to  tell,  about  our  kitty-cat. 

She  had  two  kittens,  black  and  white,  but  one  just  went  and 
died, 

And  when  we  put  it  in  the  ground  we  children  almost  cried. 

We  have  the  bestest  milk  to  drink,  cool  water  in  the  shade 

And  sometimes  when  it  is  real  hot,  Ma  makes  some  lemon 
ade. 

65 


A   TRIBUTE   TO    S.   R.   REEVES 

Goodbye,  dear  friend  of  bygone  days, 
We  miss  you  when  our  drum  corps  plays, 
Yet  all  the  tunes  you  played  so  well 
Will  always  in  our  memory  dwell. 

You  went  away  in  early  June 
Expecting  to  return  full  soon 
But  like  the  autumn  leaves  that  fall 
You  passed  away  at  Nature's  call. 

We  think  of  you  as  one  who  stays 
Among  the  scenes  of  boyhood  days, 
Where  in  the  spring  the  apple  bloom 
Will  cluster  round  your  silent  tomb. 

We  always  think  of  you  as  one 
Whose  life  work  here  was  nobly  done; 
No  words  we  have  could  ever  tell 
Our  love  for  you,  dear  friend,  farewell. 


66 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  OLD  FARM  OF  ELIJAH 
CANFIELD 

I  walked  across  the  fields  the  other  day, 

Among  the  scenes  of  childhood's  early  love; 

The  old  farm  home  has  all  been  moved  away, 
The  house  and  barn,  the  orchard  and  the  grove. 

The  pasture  lands  are  now  in  clover  hay, 

A  cornfield's  where  the  house  and  old  barn  stood, 

The  birds  that  used  to  sing  have  gone  away 
To  find  a  nesting  place  in  some  green  wood. 

How  things  have  changed  since  first  I  viewed  these  scenes — 
The  fields  are  tended  now  by  other  hands, 

While  we  who  farmed  them  once  with  rustic  means 
Are  scattered  now  in  strange  and  distant  lands. 

Most  things  have  changed  from  what  they  used  to  be, 
The  old  graveyard  has  changed  the  least  of  all, 

For  there  upon  the  silent  tombs   we  see 

Names  of  departed  friends  both  great  and  small. 

The  old  stage  road  that  used  to  cross  the  farm, 
The  well  with  sweep  and  pail  beside  the  road, 

In  dreams  remain  and  give  a  magic  charm, 
When  we  dipped  water  for  the  old  stage  load. 

And  my  heart  it  swells  with  joy 

As  it  did  when  but  a  boy 
In  the  years  before  I  went  away  to  roam; 

Now  my  old  eyes  fill  with  tears 
As  I  look  across  the  years 

At  the  faces  that  have  vanished  from  that  home. 


67 


TO   EDITH   WHEN   A    CHILD 

Little  one,  your  childish  play, 
Leads  my  restless  mind  away! 
Back  to  when  I  was  a  child, 
With  bright  fancies  running  wild. 

With  the  song  birds  of  the  air, 
And  the  wild  rose  blooming  fair, 
Dashing  off  in  childish  glee 
You  return  them  all  to  me. 

But  the  furrows  on  my  brow 
Tell  that  I  am  no  child  now! 
Childhood  with  the  years  have  gone 
Fancies  faded  one  by  one. 

Now  I  know,  the  song  birds  sing 
Sweetest  in  life's  early  spring, 
And  the  flowers  growing  wild 
Bloom  the  fairest  to  a  child. 

As  the  years  roll  swifty  by, 
Life's  spring  flowers  fade  and  die 
And  life's  yellow  autumn  flowers 
Bring  with  them  the  saddest  hours. 


68 


THE    BEST   KIND    OF   A   MAN 

We  admire  a  man  beyond  words  to  express 
Who  comes  to  our  aid  when  we  are  in  distress 
And  buckles  right  in,  does  the  best  that  he  can, 
We  call  him  the  very  best  kind  of  a  man. 

Then  there  is  the  preacher,  the  man  of  good  cheer 
Who  gives  us  wise  council  when  trouble  is  near; 
He  never  seems  flustered  whatever  goes  wrong 
And  gives  us  kind  greetings  with  word  or  song. 

There're  three  kinds  of  fellows  that  make  people  sore; 
One  of  them  talks  too  much  and  then  talks  some  more ; 
One  other  could  do  lots  of  good  but  he  won't, 
The  other  one  thinks  he  does  fine  when  he  don't. 

Then  don't  talk  too  much,  don't  bluster  and  brag, 
Be  kind  to  your  neighbor  and  true  to  your  flag; 
Be  honest  and  brave,  do  the  best  that  you  can, 
And  you  will  be  classed  as  a  true  loyal  man. 


69 


ON   THE    FARM   AT   ALPAUGH 

There's  a  something  here  at  Alpaugh  that  a  fellow  can't  ex 
plain 

When  he  gets  up  in  the  morning  and  he  looks  across  the 
plain, 

At  the  distant  lofty  mountains  that  seem  so  white  and  cold 

When  the  sun  comes  up  beyond  them  painting  clouds  and 
sky-line  gold. 

When  you  go  out  to  the  barnyard  with  a  milkpail  on  your 

arm 

And  you  feel  the  inspiration  of  a  workman  on  the  farm, 
While  away  off  in  the  distance  you  can  hear  coyotes  bark, 
As  you  listen  to  the  music  of  the  early  meadowlark. 

When  you're  all  thru  with  the  milking  and  have  fed  the  little 

calf, 

Then  the  horses  see  you  coming  and  they  all  begin  to  laugh ; 
While  your  hands  are  busy  working  at  spreading  out  the 

hay 
Your  heart  and  soul  rejoices  at  the  glorious  dawn  of  day. 

No — it  is  not  Pasadena,  with  its  free  and  easy  life, 

But  we're  out  here  close  to  nature  free  from  politics  and 

strife, 

And  I'd  rather  be  a  farmer  and  be  of  some  account, 
Than  be  a  city  loafer  and  be  classed  as  down  and  out. 


70 


A  TRIBUTE  OF  FLOWERS 

Near  mountain  peaks  that  point  to  skies  of  blue 
On  sloping  fields  where  golden  poppies  grow 

Along  the  lanes  that  lead  to  Mountain  View, 
Where  silent  tombs  reflect  the  sunset  glow. 

When  shadows  lengthen  on  the  canyon's  wall 

And  songbirds  cease  their  evening  song, 
A  somber  stillness  settles  over  all* 

And  only  echoes  of  the  day  prolong. 

Beneath  the  quiet  stars  and  silver  moon 

Among  the  trees  where  tombs  in  silence  stand, 

We  take  our  choicest  flowers  and  there  commune 
With  loved  and  loving  friends  from  spirit  land. 

When  memory  brings  their  faces  back  to  view 

They  seem  to  greet  us  with  their  smiles  through  tears; 

Flowers  are  their  smiles,  tears  are  drops  of  dew, 
So  it  has  been  through  all  times  countless  years. 

We  pass  away  and  new  forms  take  our  place, 
Faith  builds  the  soul  a  final  place  of  rest; 

Hope's  brightest  star  within  the  realms  of  space, 
Love's  rarest  gem  within  the  human  breast. 

*This  was  written  after  taking  flowers  to  Mountain  View 
Cemetery  at  night. 


71 


WHEN  DEATH  SHALL  CALL 

When  death  shall  call  for  me,  please  do  not  mourn, 

For  I  shall  be  at  rest, 
I'll  take  no  vain  regrets  across  life's  bourne, 

IV  tried  to  do  my  best. 

A  few  more  clays,  a  few  more  weeks  or  years, 

Then  I  shall  leave  this  shore; 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar  of  hopes  and  fears, 

Then  I  shall  be  no  more. 

Then  other  forms  of  life  will  take  my  place, 

While  I  return  to  dust; 
And  with  the  countless  atoms  move  through  space, 

Then  I  have  filled  my  trust. 

Yet,  if  the  essence  of  this  life,  the  soul 

Shall  never  cease  to  live, 
But  in  some  other  form  shall  reach  a  goal 

That  nature  has  to  give. 

And  if  my  spirit  fills  some  other  form, 

While  body  takes  its  rest, 
0,  may  it  be  among  the  trees  and  flowers 

With  friends  I  love  the  best. 


72 


OVERDUE.    T°     $" 

NoTig^ 


°N 


FOURTH 
SEVENTH    D!Y 


YR    I IQQ9 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


